Tuesday, 7:23 a.m. - There’s a conversation that all of us have had some version of, and it concerns the getting and spreading of COVID, and how or why we have or have not yet contracted it. We are confused, we are resigned, we are engaging in magical thinking. “I don’t understand this thing.” “My time will come.” “I just don’t think I’m ever going to get it!”

I am going to admit something to you, which is that after Nora had an asymptomatic case of COVID late this summer following an exposure, and in thinking about all my collective exposures including how Gabe had it in January - that, plus a very intense desire to finally have this virus play second or third or fourth fiddle to the glory of regular life - I started accepting that last one: that I, maybe, just wasn’t going to get it.

And that is a cocky attitude, although I didn’t feel particularly cocky, just sort of invincible. Just sort of ready to let this concern fade into nonexistence. Even if I did get it, it would be nothing, I figured. Mild. Like a cold.

So, while I know it wasn’t karma that led me to finally come down with COVID this past weekend - while I know it was, instead, me strutting around living normal life, not wearing a mask in situations where I previously would have, experiencing one of the busiest, most “normal” weeks I’ve had in such a long time (which - to be clear - is something we should all be allowed to enjoy) - it does seem a little bit like karma, you know what I’m saying?

This is what happened:

I started feeling bad late on Friday night. Achy legs. A sense of dread that the inevitable had occurred despite my optimistic assumptions. A realization that “oh my god my children all went to different social activities tonight and I have spread this through them to everyone in the state.” I took a test. It was negative.
I woke up the next morning feeling worse, with a fever, increased aches, chills and a sore throat. I had to force myself to eat some toast so I could take some Tylenol on a non-empty stomach so I could prop myself up in bed and take another test. It was faintly positive. I thought about how I’d attended our school’s open house a couple nights before and likely spread this to all of the teachers and parents and felt like a morally reprehensible individual. I thought about how people had reported “mild cold symptoms.” This was not “mild cold symptoms!”
I spent the weekend in a state of fever tamed by Tylenol doses in our bedroom, watching television and reading, and coming to grips with the fact that guilt and hang-wringing aren’t effective antidotes for an actual virus. I drank tons of water and the occasional fruit punch flavored Gatorade which was the best thing I’d ever tasted. I decided to take a few days off work to continue my recovery. I took one more test because, after taking so very many over the past couple of years I felt I owed myself one ultra definitive double line, and that test delivered. It was very positive.
Which brings me to right about now, on Tuesday, feeling exhausted but much more like myself, on my daughter’s 14th birthday. Gabe got COVID on my birthday, Nora got it on Aidy’s, and I got it on Nora’s. I will choose to look at this as our family’s unique talent.

7:41 a.m. - I had a burst of energy and wanted to get into some redecorating ideas with abandon. Had to talk myself down, refill my water cup for the 800th time and force myself to rest. BORING.

10:46 a.m. Over the past two-and-a-half years I’ve been saying that while I, of course, don’t want to get sick, I would really enjoy a few sick days, watching television with abandon while lying in bed and forgoing my normal responsibilities. I can now state that I have, indeed, enjoyed that part of this whole affair, indulging fully, really forcing myself to rest, although having THE SWEATS tends to put put a damper on one’s enjoyment of things. Also, I think there’s a cap on how long watching endless hours of television is fun and that cap has been reached. Good thing there are birds nesting in our shutters because that is what I am watching right now.

5:23 p.m. - I called J to the door of our bedroom, aka my den of illness, to tell him that I was getting annoyed with all this. I felt alright lying down, but going downstairs to make myself a cup of tea was exhausting. I told him that I was scared of the lingering symptoms some people had with COVID. Shouldn’t I be feeling better? Shouldn’t I be more productive at this point? I was feeling very selfish and a little down. He replied, “Well, WWKD?” This deserves its own post, but WWKD stands for “What Would Kathy Do?” and it’s something he and I say to each other when we are feeling just this way. Kathy, my mother, is one of the most decisive, least fretful people I know, and it is often helpful to think about how she would handle a challenging situation. He left, and I sat there drinking my tea, no television or window birds to distract me from my thoughts. I got up and took a shower. WWKD? She wouldn’t turn being sick - being sick with a virus that, all things considered, I’m handling just fine - into a complicated philosophical crusade, for one thing. She’d take the steps necessary, no fuss. Ok, onwards.

9:21 p.m. - I want everyone to know that when I am lying in bed regaining my strength, and there are a big pile of dishes in the sink, or a pair of dirty socks abandoned on the sofa, I can feel that, in my bones, and it slows down my recovery.

Wednesday, 8:42 a.m. - Day 5, at least I think so (the counting methodology is confusing) and I decided to walk the kids halfway to school; the dog, too. This morning I feel a lot better and leaving the house was sweet liberation. The dewdrops sparkling on blades of grass! HELLO WORLD. I was getting a little over-excited again, and had to stop myself from engaging the children in a spontaneous fall season planning session (apple picking! a trip to the Berkshires!) because it’s probably not fun to for children to try and navigate their parent’s mid-COVID manic scheduling stage (which, I think, is a real stage) so I reined it in. Mostly. “Look at this gorgeous day,” I said. “You know what I’ve always wanted to do? A meditation retreat. Where you meditate all weekend.” I looked at them in anticipation. No response. I asked Gabe if he’d ever want to do that with me. I asked my 11-year-old son if he’d want to do a meditation retreat with me. Maybe I was slightly detached from reality due to the tv consumption, the fever cycle, the constant questioning of my moral compass and physical capacity. But maybe not! “Um, no,” he said.

Our dog, Maisie, is six-years-old and a very good girl, although if I could pinpoint one issue, it would be a general sense of anxiety. And you can’t blame her. Part hound, part collie, part a bunch of other breeds - a mix that no doubt instilled in her the need to work, and herd and return the tennis ball to the individual who threw it without fail until eternity - she takes her tasks as well as her play very seriously, to a degree one could classify as: a little much. Every night, Maisie waits for each member of the family to make their way up the stairs and into bed. If I linger, doing the dishes or listening to a podcast in the kitchen longer than usual, she stands several feet away, both forlorn and relentless, her head low, her eyes beseeching: “What are you doing? What are you doing? Get in your bed so that I can close up shop.”

She is a rule follower and a lover of routine. So, it was of particular concern to us when, a few times during the pandemic, and more regularly recently, she began having accidents in the house every now and then, something she hadn’t done since puppyhood and barely even then.

It was of concern and, I must admit, infuriating to me because - lover of dogs that I am - I have very little patience for this particular sin. But right away, I knew what was causing it: the same thing that has caused so many of our recent woes and that is the upheaval and readjustment period of these recent years. Maisie, I was sure, once used to the comings and goings of our busy family, was jostled by our attempted return to normal. She was suffering from separation anxiety, her accidents happening when we were out, or during the bustle just before we’d leave, when she’d frantically run up and down the stairs, unsure, it seemed, whether to secure herself in the safe haven of Gabe’s room, where she sleeps, or attempt to throw her body through the screen door and get in the minivan, eyes wild, tail wagging, insistent that she not be left behind.

I knew what to do; how to initiate a multi-faceted approach. Enough exercise, being put in her crate while we were out (which is where she goes anyway, just not with the door closed) with a bone or peanut butter filled Kong toy to soothe her, perhaps a few extra doggie daycare dates. After awhile, I hoped, she’d return to her former sense of, well, not calm, never calm, but calmer than this.

That’s the approach we’ve been taking, and it’s been a success so far. I mentioned the issue to her vet during our yearly checkup, as well, who recommended a brand of CBD supplements for dogs. Despite the fact that typing “CBD supplements for dogs” makes me question our current world, in all its absurdity, we are going to try that too.

Besides the fact that she truly deserves all the help she can get during this time of transition - after all, she’s suffered through many a night watching in disbelief as J and I decide to watch a show downstairs after the kids are asleep, prolonging our getting in bed and her assuredness that all is right with the world by one or even two hours - her recent regression has reminded me of the feats we’ve all overcome, are overcoming, and a thought I’ve been having, my sweet dog at my side, her soft ears on alert for the jangling of the car keys: it feels so very good to remind ourselves that we are “getting back to normal,” but perhaps the kinder option is to throw our hands up and laugh. To admit that we’ll never be normal again.

My COVID diary: some initial thoughts

On the readjustment period